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Monday, 25 November 2013

An Unforaged Squash

A tonnage of leaf from pale to brassy rustles like
brushes on cymbals. The river silvers and suddenly a pumpkin is caught between
two rocks. I want to fetch it but the water would flood my boots. I don't why I
didn't take off the boots: to avoid the cold, in spite of adventure?

If I had reached it I would have placed it above flood level and wondered all
year: will pumpkins then grow wild in the woods?

It was smooth and unsmashed so perhaps it was plastic. I would have brought it
home to decorate the garden or tumble into a recycle bin.